


Boscombe Pond

by Englishtutor



Series: The Other Doctor Watson [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on the ACD story "The Boscomb Valley Mystery, Case Fic, Gen, John gets revenge, We learn of Mary's tragic past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John and Sherlock learn more of Mary's past as they investigate a mystery involving an old school friend. Takes place about a year after the events of "His Spare Watson" and "Can't Manage Ordinary" . Based on ACD's short story entitled "The Boscombe Valley Mystery".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rude Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based upon ACD’s short story “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”. As usual, all the best lines are his, and are in italics.

The annoying sound dragged her reluctantly towards consciousness. A sort of vague thought fluttered through her sluggish mind—what was that noise? It was a just a dream, she decided. Pillowed beneath her, John was also stirring. How could he hear the sound she was dreaming? she wondered. But then the nuisance stopped, and she sighed and wrapped herself more tightly around her husband, effectively stilling him.

Then the door to their bedroom flew open and John, instantly alert, sat straight up in bed and snatched up his gun with a cry of “What the hell?” Mary grabbed the sheet tightly around her and turned over to see what the disturbance was. There was Sherlock, looming over them in his long coat, carpetbag by his side. 

“Hurry! We have a train to catch!” he exclaimed dramatically.

John was livid. “Sherlock, what the bloody blazes are you on about? And what have I told you about bursting into our flat without knocking?”

Sherlock snorted with impatience, jerked out a drawer in the wardrobe, pulled out a pair of pants, and threw them at John with a flourish. “Get dressed! Lestrade called, we have a case. And I DID knock. You didn’t hear me. And both your phones are turned off! How am I to get hold of you if you turn your phone off?”

John had his pants on and was scrambling for trousers. “You carry on knocking until one of us answers!” he snapped. “So, what is this case we have to rush off to?”

“It’s in . . . .” Sherlock began.

Mary cleared her throat.

Both men turned to stare at her, both suddenly struck dumb and frozen in place.

“I’ve had many consultations with naked people in beds before, but that was usually in an examination room, and I was usually the one wearing clothes,” she observed wryly.

Neither John nor Sherlock could think of anything to say. 

“Get out,” said Mary suggested calmly. They got out and shut the door.

Mary sighed and hurried to the shower. This was her least favourite way of waking up in the morning.

Fully clothed, she went into the kitchen, where a half-dressed John was making tea and Sherlock was sitting at the table playing with the salt cellar and explaining why they didn’t have time for breakfast. He looked for all the world like a dog waiting for the signal to fetch.

“So what’s going on?” she asked, accepting a cup from John.

“We have a case in Herefordshire. Lestrade is there already. We need to catch the train and get out there this morning,” Sherlock explained, his words rushing out almost too quickly.

“In Ross-on-Wye?” Mary asked. “The Boscombe Pond case? The one I pointed out to you in the paper yesterday and that you said was boring? That one?”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock admitted, trying to look as sheepish as possible.

Mary balled up a serviette and threw it at him, bouncing it off of Sherlock’s forehead. “Prat,” she said affectionately. “Why can Greg persuade you to work on a case that I couldn’t?”

“He can’t,” Sherlock admitted. “But he called me this morning and said that one of the parties involved has requested my assistance specifically. I felt I couldn’t refuse a personal request from the young lady.”

Mary giggled and waggled her eyebrows at him. “Ooo, a young lady, is it?” she teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes eloquently. 

John chuckled. “Young lady, indeed. It was Lestrade’s saying not to bother coming because it’s an open-and-shut case that persuaded him. He just has to prove Scotland Yard wrong.”

“I suppose the young lady’s name is Alice Turner?” Mary asked with exaggerated innocence.

Sherlock looked at her strangely. “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. How do you know that?” he demanded.

John handed his wife a piece of buttered toast. “Perhaps she read the paper. The one you couldn’t be bothered to look at.” He buttered his own toast and bit into it.

“Or, perhaps I e-mailed Alice last night and suggested she request your help,” Mary smiled. “She happens to be an old school friend.”

Sherlock was clearly taken aback. “But, you don’t have old school friends,” he protested.

Mary tried to look insulted. “Oh, you’re in rare form today, aren’t you, Sweetheart? You’re usually insulting everyone else in the world except me. Now I don’t feel special anymore.” She ate her toast, pretending to sulk.

John stuffed the rest of his toast into his mouth. “He has a point, Mary.” His voice was muffled, talking with his mouth full. “You moved around so much as a child, you really didn’t make a lot of friends.”

Charitably, Mary conceded the point. “But Alice was an exception. I think she felt we were kindred spirits of a sort. Her mother had died when she was little, too, and she and her dad emigrated here from Australia. So we were both a bit out of place at our school, and we stuck together. I even spent a few holidays with her at her dad’s estate in Ross-on-Wye. But then I got shuffled off to yet another relative and I had to change schools. We tried to keep in touch for a bit, but you know how that goes. I used her old e-mail address on the off-chance she hadn’t changed it in twelve years. I guess she didn’t.”

But Sherlock was now in an agony of impatience. “All right, all right, you’ve finished eating. Let’s get going!”

“I’ll go get cleaned up and pack my kit. It won’t take a minute,” John said, slurping down the last of his tea. Mary popped the last bit of her toast into her mouth and followed him. 

“I don’t know what your great hurry is, Sherlock,” she called back through the bedroom door. “There are any number of trains running to Herefordshire all day long. We have plenty of time.”

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. “We?”

“We,” Mary informed him. “I’m coming too, you know. Alice is my friend, after all, or was at any rate. And anyway, the change will do me good. It’ll be good for you, too, Captain. You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately, haven’t you? Fresh, country air: that’s what we need.”

“No I haven’t,” John replied off-handedly, stepping into the bathroom for a shower.

Mary began tossing clothes into her suitcase, ignoring Sherlock’s antagonistic pacing. “I actually called work last night and took the rest of the week off,” she informed him, “even though it was long-shot, Alice having the same e-mail as she did at sixteen. I need a nice break of routine. You two have all the fun; it’s about time I got in on some of it.”

“You helped me on the Cornwall case,” Sherlock reminded her. 

“That was almost a year ago now,” she returned. “I think letting me in on a case once a year sets a good precedent.” She was finished with her own packing and started throwing John’s clothes into his old army duffel.

Then John himself reappeared, half-dressed and drying his dripping hair. “Oh, thanks, love,” he kissed his wife, seeing that she had nearly finished his packing. “I would have done that.”

“But could Sherlock have managed to wait the extra five minutes it would have taken you?” Mary chuckled. “He’s about to explode as it is.”

“We should bring some toys to keep him busy on the train,” John suggested, pulling on his shirt. “Or maybe a sedative.”

“It won’t be as long a trip as the one to Cornwall. He was a good boy on that one. I’m sure we’ll manage to keep him occupied and well-behaved.”

“Two hours and 33 minutes,” Sherlock interrupted. “If we leave now, we can catch the 9:27 from Paddington and arrive in Gloucester by noon.” He picked up Mary’s case and his own bag and stomped out the front door, leaving John and Mary to giggled at each other and quickly close up the flat.


	2. A Rude Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based upon ACD’s short story “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”. As usual, all the best lines are his, and are in italics.

Lestrade was waiting for them at the Gloucester station with a car he’d hired for their use. Mary thought his generally kindly face looked rather more harassed and irritable than usual. “I’m afraid you’ll hardly find this trip worth your time,” he informed them. “The facts are so obvious that you’ll find little credit to be gained out of this case.”

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” Sherlock replied, a bit scathingly. “We may chance to hit upon some other ‘obvious facts’ that have been by no means obvious to you.”

“Be nice,” John murmured to him under his breath, and, “What he means to say is . . . .” Mary began, in her usual desire to soothe feelings; but Lestrade interrupted.

“Don’t bother playing interpreter with me, Mary. I know exactly what he means to say,” Lestrade said dryly. “But frankly, I can hardly imagine a more damning case. If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal, it does so here.”

“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing. It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different.” Sherlock walked abruptly away with a dramatic swirl of his coat and climbed into the car. John and Lestrade looked at each other with a mutual shrug and followed him. Mary trailed behind, watching the tension between the men and frowning. She had her work cut out for her, she could see.

The short drive to Ross-on-Wye was scenic; mostly farmland, with scatterings of dense wood and little villages. It had been a wet spring, and the jewel-toned greenness of the landscape was breath-taking; Mary grew nostalgic seeing it again after so many years. Lestrade started to tell them about the case, but Sherlock did not want to hear it. Such hearsay and second-hand accounts would only contaminate his own observations. So instead, Mary reminisced aloud about her youthful holidays at the Turner estate, trying to keep the mood light. The estate was south of Ross-on-Wye, encompassing a large swath of woods, a scenic pond, and a small amount of workable farmland. John Turner had come from Australia twenty years ago with seemingly bottomless pockets and was able to purchase and run the estate with no discernible means of income. His independently wealthy status and open-handed generosity made him an immediate favourite in the neighbourhood. His daughter Alice, however, was an awkward and shy child and had few intimate friends. She and Mary, fellow societal outcasts at their boarding school, formed an alliance borne of necessity and loneliness. They were inseparable for nearly three years, until Mary was sent on to yet another relative and yet another school.

“We’d come here every chance we got, really,” Mary mused thoughtfully. “We would hike and explore and canoe down the river and go camping in the wood. We built a treehouse; we practiced archery and slingshots and target shooting with air rifles; we set things on fire. It was always a lovely break. I never wanted to go back to school.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows met his greying hairline. “Set things on fire?” he inquired.

“Not anything important,” Mary waved accusations of arson away airily with a dismissive gesture.

John smiled affectionately. “You were always adventuresome, even as a girl, weren’t you, love? How old were you when you used to come here?”

“Between fourteen and sixteen. I spent two whole summer holidays here, and other breaks as well. Alice was as enthusiastic as I was about outdoor activities. I usually came up the ideas, but she was always game to tag along. Her father was always very kind to me and gave us free reign to do whatever we liked. Honestly, until I met you, Captain, that was the most stable and most happy time of my life.”

“Did you know the McCarthys as well?” Lestrade wanted to know.

“Not really, no,” Mary told him thoughtfully. “They moved here from Australia when Alice and I were sixteen. I was sent away shortly after that.” She was silent for a moment, remembering that traumatic time. The time her father disappeared. The time her world changed yet again. But she saw John watching her closely and shook off the melancholy. Now was not the time for it. She had work to do.

With deliberately renewed energy, she went on. “The last holiday we had before I left, Jimmy McCarthy had just moved there and he joined us in some of our outings. He was eighteen—he seemed so much older than we were then! Alice had known him all her life, of course. They were children together in Australia. Jimmy’s father, Charles, I only remember seeing once. I took an instant dislike to him then, probably because of the high-handed way he spoke to Jimmy. I seem to remember he had a difficult temper. But he was a great friend of Alice’s father and rented a cottage from them on their land. Mr. Turner and Mr. McCarthy had worked together in Australia, and I think Alice’s mother was a close friend of James’ mother, as well. So naturally, they were keen to live near one another.”

“And now Charles McCarthy is dead, seemingly at the hand of his son,” John remarked solemnly.

“Alice doesn’t think so,” Mary insisted. “Her e-mail to me this morning says she is certain he couldn’t have done it, in spite of how dark it looks.”

Their first stop was the morgue, where Lestrade had arranged for them to examine the body of Charles McCarthy for themselves. The facility was enough like home that Mary was able to completely dispel the last lingering bit of sadness and plunge into her job with enthusiasm. The victim was grey-haired and heavy-set in his early sixties, his face marked with the frown lines of a man who had scowled his way through his life. Mary looked at his hands while John studied his face more closely, two blond heads bowed over the body with twin looks of concentration. Mary tried to feel ashamed of how much she was enjoying herself. She so rarely had the opportunity to work with her husband in his exciting job, it was exhilarating to her. She attempted a solemn face.

“I’d say he never worked a day in his life,” Mary remarked a bit disdainfully. John leaned over closer to her to see what she was doing. “And look at that manicure. No discernible means of income, but he can afford a manicure?” she continued scornfully, rubbing shoulders with her Captain.

“Well observed, Doctor,” John winked at her cheerfully and returned to his own examination. “Doesn’t look like he enjoyed the outdoors, either, by the look of him. No tan, no sun damage whatever. Makes one wonder what he was doing down by that pond, such a ways from the house,” he mused. 

“Nice point, Captain,” Mary complimented him, her dimples deepening.

Lestrade looked distressed. He leaned closer to Sherlock and murmured, though loud enough for Mary to overhear, “Good lord. Are they flirting? Over a corpse? Really?”

“Excellent observation,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

“Happens a lot, does it?” 

“More often than it should,” Sherlock said with a longsuffering sigh.

Lestrade shook his head. “Once is too often, in my book,” he muttered. “Doctors!”

The Doctors Watson had turned their attention to the head wound in concert: the cause of death. Simultaneously, the looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

“Do you see . . . ?” they both said at once.

“See what?” Lestrade demanded.

“The papers reported that the son was seen following his father to the pond and carrying a shotgun, yeah?” John asked. Lestrade nodded and John continued. “They were heard quarrelling. A witness states that she saw the young man raise his hand to strike his father. The implication is that in a fit of rage the son clubbed his father with the butt of the gun and killed him.”

Mary shook her head. “But this wound was caused by something much smaller and rounder than the butt of shotgun. Something more the size and shape of a golf ball.” 

John agreed. “The knob on a walking cane, perhaps? A golf club?” he suggested. “And isn’t it odd that he should be hit from behind during a heated argument?” he added. 

“I suppose he could have turned his back for some reason, but would you really turn your back on an enraged man? One who had already threatened violence once during the argument?” Mary mused.

“People do stupid things,” Lestrade suggested, and Sherlock snorted derisively. Mary waved a warning finger at him, the signal for him to behave.

Sherlock had been standing back, silently watching his colleagues at work. Now he roused himself to speak. “I’ve seen enough. I need to interview the suspect,” he intoned. He swept from the room imperiously, drawing the others, bemused, in his wake. 

Mary fell in stride beside Lestrade. “Sorry if we made you uncomfortable in there, Greg,” she said, trying and failing to sound contrite.

Lestrade sighed. “Never mind. I suppose it’s good for a married couple to have common interests,” he conceded. “Even if the interests they share are incredibly macabre.”

Mary chuckled. “Only some of them,” she assured him, as they once again reached the car.


	3. Alice and Jimmy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based upon ACD’s short story “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”, with a reference to “The Man with the Twisted Lip”. As usual, all the best lines are his, and are in italics.
> 
> Many thanks to mrspencil for her invaluable help and encouragement.

Lestrade had arranged for Sherlock and John to question the prisoner that afternoon, and so it was on to the police station. As they approached the entrance, Mary saw a familiar face. Her old school chum was sitting on a bench by the station, looking up and down the street. The girl spotted them and flew at Mary, enveloping her in an enthusiastic embrace.

“Mary! I was so glad to hear from you last night, and even more glad to get your e-mail this morning that you were on the way here! Oh, let me look at you!” The two young women stood back and looked each other over eagerly.

“Alice, you’re all grown up!” Mary said warmly. “It’s so lovely to see you.”

 

“You’ve changed a bit yourself,” Alice smiled, violet eyes shining. “How the years got away from us, eh?”

Mary nodded. “We felt we were so grown up when we were sixteen. Now I look back and see what complete babies we were then.” She happened to catch an amused look from Lestrade at that moment and realized that he considered twenty-eight-year-olds as to be not much more than babies.

“This must be the husband you wrote about in your e-mail,” Alice turned to John and held out her hand. “I’m Alice, and you’re James, I think she told me?”

“John,” he corrected, taking her hand genially, and she flushed, apologizing for her poor memory.

“Never mind, darling,” Mary told her. “It’s difficult keeping all those common-place ‘J’ names straight.”

“It’s true,” John told her ruefully. “Mary never even tries to remember my name. Just calls me by my military rank instead.”

“And this is our friend I wrote to you about, Sherlock Holmes,” Mary went on. “And you’ve met Detective Inspector Lestrade, of course.”

“Good to see you again, Inspector Lestrade,” Alice said with a cool politeness. Then she shook Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, Mr. Holmes,” she said sincerely. “I am so thankful to you for coming. I’ve just been waiting here for you to tell you that. I know that Jimmy didn’t do it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. We have known each other since we were children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him,” she said earnestly.

“I hope that we may clear him, Miss Turner,” Sherlock assured her. “I think it is very probable that he is innocent.”

Alice looked immensely relieved. “You have given me hopes, Mr. Holmes. You see, Inspector Lestrade! He gives me hopes!”

Lestrade shook his head. “I’m afraid he is being a little quick in forming his conclusions,” he protested.

“But he’s right, nevertheless. I know he is,” Alice insisted. “And as to the quarrel with his father, which he won’t talk about; I’m sure I know what it was about. I’m quite sure it had to do with me.”

“How so?” Sherlock looked at her closely.

“Mr. McCarthy had it in his mind for us to marry, Jimmy and me. He’s been going on about it for years. But we’re just chums, you know. It would feel like marrying my own brother. And now Jimmy just got himself engaged to a nice girl in Birmingham. That’s where he lives now. And that’s why he came home this weekend: to tell his father.”

Lestrade was annoyed. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this? Where is this fiancée now?” he demanded irritably.

“She arrived this morning; she was staying at the cottage Mr. McCarthy rents from us, but I’ve persuaded her to move in with us. She’s in a right state, as you can imagine, not fit to be alone. You’ve got to save Jimmy, for her sake as well as his own.”

Mary hugged her gently. "We'll do our best, dear," she said. 

“You’re all to stay with Dad and me, of course,” Alice told them. “There’s plenty of room. It’ll be like old times, Mary. We can do some catching up.”

“It sounds lovely. We’ll meet you there, shall we? I can see Sherlock champing at the bit to get to work, so we should go in.” Alice left them, and the foursome entered the police station.

“I am ashamed of you, Sherlock,” Lestrade scolded, irritated. “Giving the girl false hopes when you are bound to disappoint. I call that cruel!”*

“I think I see my way clear to saving Jimmy McCarthy,” Sherlock said confidently. “I just need to gather the evidence. The hearing isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. We have plenty of time to clear him before he’s remanded.”

Lestrade shook his head and went to the officer in charge to have Jimmy McCarthy brought to an interrogation room.

Sherlock and John had permission to question the young man, leaving Mary and Lestrade to wait outside the room, watching through the one-way mirror. Jimmy McCarthy was thirty-years-old, dark-haired and athletic. Unlike his father, it was plain that he enjoyed sport and being out-of-doors. His hands shook with nerves, however, as John introduced himself and Sherlock, and Mary could not help feeling sorry for him, murderer or no.

“I hardly know where to begin, Mr. Holmes,” Jimmy said uncertainly. “And I’ve already given my statement to Inspector Lestrade. I see it there in front of you.”

“And I have refused to read it,” Sherlock informed him. “I would like to hear your story first-hand, in your own words, if you please. Begin with your arrival here from Birmingham, day before yesterday.”

Jimmy took a deep, shaky breath, and plunged into his story. “Right. You know I live in Birmingham; have done for eight years now. But I come home whenever I can for a weekend. Good hunting and fishing here, you know. Old man Turner gives all his tenants free use of his lands for sport and camping and such.”

“How many tenants are there?” John asked, opening his little notebook and getting out his pen.

“There are four cottages, all in a row on the road between the Turner’s house and Boscombe Pond. There’s nothing else on that road; it’s only a quarter of a mile long, so it’s pretty deserted most of the time.”

“So you came from Birmingham to hunt and fish,” Sherlock stated pointedly, rather than asked.

“Yes.” Jimmy had barely got the words out of his mouth before Sherlock slammed his fist on the table and rose to pace the room. 

“I can’t help you, Jimmy, if you won’t be completely honest with me,” he shouted impatiently. “If you won’t tell the truth, I may as well leave.”

Jimmy’s eyes grew wide with panic, and John reached across the table to put a reassuring hand on the boy’s arm. “We’ve talked to Alice Turner. We know all about your fiancée. Just tell us what really happened and we can sort this all out,” John said in his most soothing, doctor-voice.

“Alice has a big mouth,” Jimmy groaned. “I had hoped to keep Maggy out of this. The Press, you know. I guess it’s useless to try, isn’t it?”

John nodded sympathetically. “I understand your reasons, but we’re not the Press. We need facts or we can’t help you.”

Mary, watching through the mirror, looked at Lestrade and smiled. “Isn’t it fun to watch them work together? They play off each other so well.”

“I’ve never thought of it as playing,” Lestrade muttered.

“All right, all right, then,” Jimmy started again. “Yes, I came home to tell my Dad about Maggy. Not that it’s any of his business; but he’s all the family I’ve got, so I figured I ought to tell him I was getting married. I knew it wouldn’t go well. Alice will have told you, I guess, that he had got it in his head that I should marry her. So when I got to the cottage and found him gone, I was a bit relieved. But then the old lady next door –she’s new, I don’t remember her name-- came and told me I’d just missed him; she’d seen Dad head down the road to the Pond, not a minute before I drove up. I thought about driving after him, but then I thought the walk would help my nerves. I picked up my shotgun from the cottage and took off after him.”

“Why did you get your shotgun?” John asked gently. Sherlock continued pacing as he listened silently.

“Thought I might flush a pheasant on my way. Hunting’s a good way to steady the nerves, I find. Anyway, I passed the old lady’s cottage and then passed William Crowder’s cottage. He was on the front porch, and I waved to him. I could just see my Dad go round the curve in the road ahead, but I admit, I didn’t hurry to catch up to him. I was having a think about what I was going to say to him, you see. Then I passed the More’s cottage, and that’s when I heard Dad whistle. It was the whistle he used to use to call us home, all while I was growing up. You know, the kind of thing parents do, to call you home for meals.” Jimmy stopped talking and studied the table. 

“But he hadn’t seen you yet?” John prompted.

Jimmy burst out, “That’s just what I mean! He couldn’t have seen me, he’d never turned round. When he did see me, after he’d whistled, he looked completely surprised. It was . . . uncanny!”

Sherlock stopped pacing and stood by John’s chair. “Tell me exactly what your father was doing when you arrived at the Pond,” he demanded.

“He was just standing there,” Jimmy said, puzzled.

“He walked all the way to the pond, just to stand there,” Sherlock said sarcastically. 

“People do, you know,” Jimmy said defensively. “People take walks and look at things.”

“But your father didn’t,” Sherlock pronounced. “Your father was no outdoorsman. He didn’t go on walks just to take in the scenery. He wouldn’t have walked a quarter mile for no purpose.”

Jimmy paled. “It’s true, though how you know that I can’t imagine. No one was lazier physically than my Dad.”

“So I ask again: what exactly was he doing?”

Jimmy seemed at loss to answer, under Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. John waved the detective away and helpfully gave some suggestions to the young man. “Was he standing still? Was he walking around the Pond? Could you tell what he was looking at?”

The light dawned. “Oh, I see. Yeah, he was standing still, and looking to the footpath north of the Pond. I was, of course, coming from the west, up behind him. When he heard my footsteps, he turned round. No one could have looked more shocked than he, for I was not expected home.”

“Then I imagine he asked what you were doing there, and you told him about your impending marriage,” Sherlock concluded impatiently. “And you had words.”

Jimmy nodded, agitated. “It was all about money! How Alice would inherit old man Turner’s fortune, and how it should be mine and all. And then when I told him Maggy’s family hasn’t any money to speak of, he really exploded!”

John consulted the police report before him. “Are you aware that a witness saw at least part of your argument with your father? A girl named Patience More?” 

Jimmy looked astonished. “I didn’t notice anyone else there!” he cried.

“She was apparently on the opposite side of the Pond when you arrived. She couldn’t make out the words you were saying, but she could hear shouting, and claims she saw you raise your hand as if to strike your father. She ran home, then, in a fright.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I never noticed her. Yes, she’s telling the truth. Dad said some . . . uncomplimentary things about Maggy, and I was tempted to punch him. But I stayed my hand, I promise! I would have been justified, but I didn’t hit him!”

Sherlock had been pacing again as Jimmy and John talked, but now he turned on the young man with a piercing eye. “Here we go,” Mary said to Lestrade. “He’s off on a tirade.”

“Yes, you would have been justified, wouldn’t you? For your father, Charles McCarthy, was a selfish and abusive man with a quick temper. He beat you as a child, I warrant, and perhaps beat your mother, too. He was obsessed with having money and yet was too lazy to work hard and make it for himself. You moved here with him after your mother died, but couldn’t wait to leave home and get away from a man you’d learned to hate.”

John had been monitoring Jimmy’s reactions, and at this point, he held up a hand to stop the outpouring of deductions. “That’s enough, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Your point is made.” 

Jimmy was silent a moment, catching his breath. “Yes, it’s all true. I had every reason to hate my Dad. I often wished him dead. But I didn’t kill him. I walked away. If Patience had stuck around, she’d have seen me lower my fist and walk away. I was afraid he’d follow me, to press his argument, but he didn’t. He stayed by the Pond, looking back to the north again. Just as I rounded the bend out of sight, I heard a cry and a thud. I ran back, and there he was, on the ground, his head smashed in. And God help me, for a moment, I was glad.”

John let him rest a moment before going on. “He wasn’t dead yet, though. He talked to you,” he prompted. “Perhaps he mentioned whom he was waiting there to see, whom he expected to arrive on the footpath?”

Jimmy shook his head. “He did speak, but it was all nonsense. He just kept mumbling about a cat.”

“A cat?” Sherlock demanded. “You’re sure it was ‘cat’?”

“Yeah. I mean, he mumbled other sounds, too, that I couldn’t make out. The only word I understood was ‘cat’. He must have been hallucinating.”

Sherlock grinned gleefully. “It all begins to become clear! Oh, this is marvellous!” he steepled his hands beneath his chin and lost himself in thought.

“Sherlock. Timing,” John admonished him quietly.

Lestrade looked at Mary. “A cat?” 

Mary shrugged. “When he explains it, you know it’ll be obvious and we’ll all feel like idiots.”

Lestrade agreed fatalistically. “A cat,” he grumbled. 

“A head wound wouldn’t cause hallucinations,” John was telling Jimmy. “He must have been trying to tell you something and couldn’t make his words clear.” He looked at the police report once more. “One more thing to address: your father’s source of income. He seems to have a steady income, and yet has no job.”

“He was a banker in Australia. He and old man Turner worked in the same institution. Dad told me he gave speculation money to Mr. Turner to invest, and the returns on those investments are what made Turner rich and provided a regular income to him.”

“If he is interested in investing his money, can you explain why he never invested in his own home? Why rent a cottage?” Sherlock asked.

Jimmy smiled then. “Oh, that’s an easy one. We never rented that cottage, although that’s supposed to be kept quiet. Mr. Turner let us have the cottage free and clear. But he didn’t want the other tenants to know that, of course.”

“Why would Mr. Turner give your father a cottage?” John wondered.

“I thought it was because they were old friends, at first,” Jimmy answered thoughtfully. “But, you know, my Dad is . . . was not really a friendly type. I mean, if they were friends, why did they never spend any time together? They hardly ever even saw each other, which is difficult to do in a small community like this. But then I realized; he was kind to us because of my mother. My mother and Mrs. Turner were very close friends in Australia. I never saw my mother cry more heart-brokenly than when Mrs. Turner passed away. She lived ten years longer, but not a day went by that she didn’t mention her dear, old friend.”

Jimmy turned to Sherlock. “That’s why Alice and I have stayed close. She’s the only person I know, besides my Dad, who remembers my mother. I’m the only person she knows, besides her father, who remembers hers.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Unimportant. I know enough. I believe you are innocent, and that I will have the proof before you go before the Magistrate tomorrow. Let’s go, John.” Sherlock left the room in a dramatic swirl of coat tails, leaving John to say their thanks and goodbyes.

Mary smiled fondly. “I knew I liked Jimmy McCarthy,” she said softly.

“What, just because the boy loves his mother,” Lestrade snorted, unconvinced. “A lot of murderers love their mothers.”

“I’d give anything if I knew just one person who knew my mother,” she replied wistfully.

Lestrade looked down at her, his expression softening, and put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “I know you would. I’m sorry, Mary.” 

“Enough! Let’s go, let’s GO!” Sherlock exclaimed.


	4. Finding Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based upon ACD’s short story “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”. As usual, all the best lines are his, and are in italics.
> 
> My sincere thanks to mrspencil for her invaluable help and encouragement.

“Now you’ve done it, Sherlock.” Lestrade was exasperated. They were walking down the street to the cark park, Sherlock setting a very quick pace. “You’ve given the poor bloke hope where there is none. I told you, it’s an open-and-shut case. We have two witnesses to the fact that he followed the victim to the Pond, one witness to testify that they quarreled and that the suspect threatened violence. And by his own admission, they were entirely alone. Not only that, the boy has a motive. Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence.”

Sherlock stopped and turned on him. “So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged,” he replied scathingly. “You’ve forgotten the most important facts in this case, Lestrade. The wound is the wrong shape for the murder weapon. The victim was sedentary in his habits and was looking to the north. He whistled for his children to come to dinner. And, of course, there’s the presence of the cat!”

“You have only his word for that, Sherlock, whatever it means! While I agree the shotgun was not the murder weapon, the lack of a weapon on the scene means nothing: the Pond is right there, waiting for weapons-disposal! How do you know he isn’t just winding you up about cats and whistles?” Lestrade demanded. “I find it hard enough to tackle facts, without flying away after theories and fancies.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock replied demurely. “You do find it very hard to tackle the facts.”

Lestrade was quickly losing his temper. “I have at least grasped one fact you seem to find it difficult to get hold of. McCarthy Senior met his death from McCarthy Junior, and all theories to the contrary the merest moonshine.”

Sherlock swirled around and continued his march to the car, opening the back door. “Moonshine is brighter than fog,” he snapped “I refuse to discuss this with you if you won’t stop being such a complete idiot.”

“Sherlock!” Mary scolded him. He opened his mouth to protest, but she had her right index finger up, and he knew he’d gone too far. He threw himself into the back seat of the car and slammed the door.

Lestrade was staring at her with mingled amusement and respect. “How do you do that?” he asked her. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

“It’s a secret I’ll take to my grave. If you had an off-button, you wouldn’t want me telling everyone, would you?” she smiled charmingly.

“She won’t even tell me,” John complained. “Anyway, I imagine what he was about to say amounted to the fact that, if Jimmy were making things up, he’d surely come up with something less damning to himself than that whistle and more plausible and helpful to his defense than a cat.”

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully and slid behind the wheel of the car. Mary sat in back with Sherlock and John got in front. “All right, off we go. Would you like to see the scene of the crime, then?” the D.I. asked.

“Not yet. The McCarthy cottage first. I need to rifle his desk,” Sherlock said, in a more subdued voice than usual because Mary was glaring at him.

Fortunately, Lestrade already had a search warrant issued for the search of the cottage, and they drove there in silence. As they parked in the lane, he spoke up. “We have looked through the place, you know. Didn’t find anything relevant.”

Sherlock huffed, a world of sarcastic intimations in a puff of air, but refrained from saying anything with Mary’s eye still upon him. The cottage showed signs of its newest occupant, the mysterious fiancée Maggy, but was presently deserted. Sherlock made a bee-line to the desk, ignoring the rest of the structure entirely.

Finding the victim’s bank book, he flipped through it hastily, then shoved it into his pocket, made a cursory look over some of the other papers in the drawers, and then was off again.

“Do you want to question the neighbours, or go to the scene of the crime?” Lestrade asked him.

“I don’t care about the neighbours. And it’s getting late. The light will be bad. We’ll go to the Pond first thing in the morning,” Sherlock pronounced. 

“Off to the Turner estate, then.”

000

It was just as Mary remembered it. It was uncanny, how unchanged it was, after twelve years. The rambling, seven-bedroom farmhouse; the outbuildings; the gardens surrounding them and the wood beyond: everything was just as it should be. It made her ecstatically happy and curiously sad all at once.

Alice was at the door waiting as they pulled up. After warmly welcoming her guests, she said to Mary, “Dad is so eager to see you. But I must warn you, darling, he’s changed. He’s been very ill for a long time. Lung cancer.” 

Mary gasped and put a comforting hand on her friend’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Alice! I had no idea. How is it being treated?”

“It’s an inoperable tumor. They’re giving him medicine to manage the pain, but not treatable. It’s slow-growing, but it’s taking more of his strength away every day. That’s why I came home; to look after him. I was living in Birmingham, you know, until recently. I had a good job there, in an art museum. But Dad needed me.”

“Oh, Alice,” Mary sighed, her voice deep with sympathy. “Your father was always so good to me. He always made me feel welcome here. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Alice looked at the floor and nodded. “He’s resting now. He’s promised to try to come down to dinner, though, and see everyone. He’s grateful to you all for coming to help Jimmy. He loves Jimmy like a son. He was always at our house when we were children in Australia, or I was at Jimmy’s.”

“You are familiar, then, with the particular way in which Jimmy’s father would call him in for meals?” Sherlock asked off-handedly.

“This is hardly the time, Sweetheart,” Mary murmured at him under her breath.

“No, it’s all right. Although why it’s important, I can’t think,” Alice said. “Yes, he had a special kind of whistle when he wanted to get our attention. Why do you ask?”

“Just verifying a point,” Sherlock replied. 

"Maggy's here, too. She's resting upstairs, with a headache, poor thing. This entire ordeal has been so difficult for her. It’s hard to imagine how happy we all were for her and Jimmy just a few days ago,” Alice said somberly.

She showed them into the sitting room and then went to make them tea. Sherlock immediately strode to the desk in one corner and began to rummage through it.

His friends were shocked. “Sit down, mate,” Lestrade ordered quietly. “We don’t have a search warrant for this house, and we don’t have cause to get one.”

Sherlock looked about to protest, but John caught his eye, shaking his head firmly, so he sat down instead, right on the edge of a chair as if ready to spring. “Lestrade, you need to make some calls. Here is McCarthy’s bankbook. I guarantee that if you compare the deposits made into his bank account with withdrawals made from Turner’s account, you will find an exact correspondence.”

“Blackmail?” John exclaimed. “Is that what you think? Could it be possible?” 

Lestrade mused over the notion. “It would explain a lot about McCarthy’s income. And the cottage.”

“Nonsense. What could lovely old Mr. Turner be blackmailed over? He’s the kindest, most generous man I know,” Mary declared. But then Alice reappeared with the tea tray, and they all fell into a polite ritual of small talk and reminiscence. The conversation turned to everyday things.

Lestrade remained just long enough to be civil, then excused himself, claiming he had official business. Mary knew he was following up on Sherlock’s suggestions, calling banks and accountants and whatnots. Sherlock, she saw, knew this, too. He had relaxed and calmed himself, feeling that Lestrade was, at last, coming around to his way of thinking. As much as her mind rebelled against the thought of Mr. Turner being blackmailed, it was a relief to see Sherlock and Lestrade getting back into a more cordial, less contentious relationship. They had been at odds all afternoon, and it was getting exhausting.

After tea, Mary begged Alice to take them on a tour of the grounds. “I’ve been longing for the Captain to see some of my favorite places,” she said. Alice led the way into the garden, and the girls chattered fondly of things they used to do there. Mary caught John’s hand and began to point out places of interest. “There’s the croquet lawn. And through those trees there, we used to set up a tent and camp out. There’s where we built the treehouse. Oh, I can’t believe it’s still there! And there’s the fire pit, too.”

John laughed. “I can imagine that came in handy,” he said affectionately. “Runs with scissors; plays with matches. That’s my Mary.”

Alice chimed in with her own fond chuckle. “She was always getting me into scrapes. But she always got us out of them again. She could wrap my Dad round her little finger and get away with anything.” 

“I was incorrigible,” Mary freely agreed. “It’s a wonder I didn’t turn to a life of crime.”

“You could be a criminal mastermind, with your talents, if you chose,” Sherlock remarked. Mary grinned broadly at him. In his own, bizarre way, he was apologizing to her for his behavior that day.

“I’ll take that as a great compliment. Thank you!” she bowed showily. Apology accepted.

They continued their walk through the manicured garden, watching the sun sink into the horizon, then on around the barn and to a field beyond.

“The targets are gone,” Mary noted. “We used to have a line of targets across the field. We practiced with air rifles. Mr. Turner wouldn’t let us handle his hunting rifles or shotguns.”

“Wouldn’t LET us,” Alice giggled. “We got into his gun case a few times without his knowledge. Oh, when I think of the trouble we might have got into!”

Mary had the grace to blush. “I’m ashamed to admit, I was a good picklock. That I’ve never had a criminal record, I can only chalk up to chance. Anyway, I enjoyed the challenges of archery and slingshots more than shooting firearms.”

“What kind of slingshots?” John asked. “Not the swing-round-your-head type?”

“Oh, we’d have tried those, too, if we’d had any. No, we used hunting catapults. Mr. Turner used to have some nice brass ones, and some light-weight aluminium ones as well. You could kill a bull moose with one of those, I’ll bet.”

“Mary was most expert on archery, though,” Alice put in. “She would practice for hours, until she could get five arrows in the bulls-eye in one minute. Once she even split an arrow in the bull’s eye with a second arrow.”

Mary laughed. “That was purely an accident. I couldn’t have done it on purpose if I tried. That was an exciting moment, though. I felt quite like Robin Hood.”

John’s eyes shone admiringly. “I always knew you were a dangerous woman. Now I’m quite frightened of you,” he teased.

"You should give us an exhibition,” Sherlock suggested. “And I’d rather enjoy getting in a bit of target-practice myself.”

“I’m not sure where all the equipment has gone,” Alice told him. “It’s been years and years since anyone’s used them. We can look in the barn, if you like. But I’m afraid the light’s going too fast, anyway.” She led the way to the barn. The door creaked and was difficult to open; it had obviously not been used for some time. Suddenly, out of the darkened interior, a cat leaped out and sped away into the greying dusk, giving them all a start.

Alice chuckled. “Sorry. He’s a good mouser, but not very well-mannered, that cat.”

They gave a cursory look round for the targets and equipment, but it was too dark to see well and the old structure was not wired for electricity. 

“Oh well, maybe we’ll have time to look tomorrow. I must go help the cook get dinner ready. We’ll eat at 8:00, if that’s all right with you,” Alice said. “Feel free to prowl about as you like until then.” She ambled back to the house. 

Mary and John wandered about the garden for some time, hand in hand, admiring the flower beds and fruit trees in the gathering gloaming. Sherlock returned to the house. Mary assumed he meant to find Lestrade and harass him for answers to the banking questions he had set into motion.

Returning to the sitting room, she found she was correct in her assumption. Lestrade was sitting there, on the phone again, with Sherlock looming over him impatiently. Just as they entered the room, the D. I. hung up and glared up at the detective, aggrieved. “Do you really think that your standing there will cause us to get results any faster?” he grumbled. “Back off, why don’t you?”

Sherlock ignored his complaints. “What have they found out?” he demanded.

“You’re right, the withdrawals and deposits correspond precisely, and have done for the past twenty years. Furthermore, there was a huge embezzlement scandal in the banking firm in which Turner and McCarthy worked in Australia—twenty years ago. The person who discovered and reported the discrepancies and headed up the investigation was none other than our Mr. John Turner,” Lestrade reported.

Sherlock gave a predatory smile. “Perfect. What better way to cover your own involvement than to be the one to uncover the crime. Brilliant!”

“I can’t believe it,” Mary gasped softly. “Mr. Turner, an embezzler? I just . . . can’t believe it. What was the result of the investigation, Greg?” She sat down suddenly, feeling the world go off-kilter.

“They convicted one of the older employees who was about to go into retirement. He did a few years in prison, then died of complications from pneumonia. The money he embezzled, however, was never found.”

Alice chose just that moment to come in and call them to dinner. Mary determinedly collected her scattered and shocked wits to make as pleasant a meal as possible. But inside, her mind was reeling. This case was no longer the least bit enjoyable. She began to wish she hadn’t come.


	5. Ghosts of the Past

Jack Turner hobbled into the dining room, leaning on his cane and depending on his daughter to guide his feeble steps. Mary’s heart broke, seeing him looking so pale and ill. By his eyes, she could see that he was heavily medicated; by his tightened jaw and whitened knuckles, she could see that he was nevertheless in considerable pain. She looked at John and knew he saw these things as well. His face was all compassion. 

“Mary, my dear,” Mr. Turner rasped, his voice warm and welcoming. “Why has it been so long since you’ve come to see us? Let me look at you.” He put his free hand on her shoulder and looked her over. “Our wild little hooligan has grown into a lady, I see.”

“Don’t let her fool you; it’s a diabolical act,” John assured him, and introduced himself, Sherlock, and Lestrade. Mary managed to catch Sherlock’s eye. Silently, she pleaded with him not to deduce anyone tonight. He gave her a ghost of a smile and a nearly motionless nod.

“I’m grateful to you gentlemen for coming to our aid,” the old man said. “Jimmy is a good boy. He’d never hurt another living soul, I am sure of it.”

“It’s our pleasure, Mr. Turner,” Sherlock said grandly, giving Mary a significant look. See what a good boy I am.

They were just sitting down at the table when the last of their party arrived. Jimmy’s fiancée, Maggy, looked shell-shocked as she wandered into the room and made her way to a chair. Alice stood and hugged her gently. “I’m so glad you feel well enough to come down to be with us,” she said warmly. Quickly, more introductions were made. Maggy was a pretty girl, Mary felt certain, when she was not red-faced with crying and worn with worry. 

“Alice tells me you believe you can clear Jimmy’s name,” she said hopefully, looking from one visitor to another as if unsure whom to address. “Is there really hope?”

“I have most of the evidence I need to effect his release,” Sherlock assured her confidently. “Tomorrow at this time, he will be free to have dinner with you.”

Lestrade shook his head, but did not voice his misgivings. He was obviously done with trying to rein Sherlock in. The rest of the dinner passed pleasantly enough, with everyone on his best behaviour. Sherlock was even trying to be charming, which clearly amused John and Lestrade, and warmed Mary’s heart.

000

She stood before the bedroom window, looking out on the grounds that glowed with moonlight. John was closeted with Sherlock, being a ‘conductor of light’, as he put it. Everyone else had long ago gone to bed. She thought she should go to sleep as well, but still she stood, waiting.

John slipped in silently and stood beside her. He put an arm around her and leaned his head on hers. They stood this way together for a long time, communing without words.

“There’s Sherlock, prowling the grounds,” Mary pointed out, breaking the spell.

John nodded, bemused. “He said he was going out to look for the cat.”

Incongruously, Mary went on. “My father sent me away when I was six. I can’t really remember him at all. Alice’s dad—he was more of a father to me than, I guess, anyone ever was. And that’s sad, really, because in actuality, while he was very kind, he was also rather distant. I never knew a man could be capable of real intimacy until I met you.”

John smiled and held her more tightly against his side, but wisely said nothing.

“Mr. Turner stole that money and framed an old man for it, didn’t he?” she asked, her voice quavering a bit.

“I’m afraid it looks that way, love,” John admitted, putting both arms around her comfortingly.

They stood in silence once again.

“I’m glad I know you, Captain,” Mary said softly. “If I’d never met you, I’d be sure there wasn’t a soul on earth with an ounce of integrity.”

“It looks as if he’s paid for his crime many times over, these past twenty years,” John reminded her. “And the wrong he’s done doesn’t negate the good he did, for you and for many other people.”

She hid her face in his shoulder, not quite crying, and he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“There’s more, isn’t there? There’s something else bothering you,” he murmured gently. “Do you feel like talking about it?”

She was still for a long moment. Then she sighed and lifted her head and looked out the window again. “This is the room I always stayed in when I visited here. The last day of my childhood was spent here. The very moment it ended, I was standing right here. This is the last place, the last time, I felt settled and safe for a long time after. I thought that it would bring back happy memories of those times, being here. But . . . .” she was unable to continue. She hid her face in his neck once more.

“You were here, on that last holiday, when you got the news about your father disappearing,” John said. She nodded, not surprised that he had guessed it. 

“It wasn’t his disappearance that traumatized me, though. He’d vanished from my life ten years earlier, when he sent me away. It was what came after that was . . . difficult. Because since he was gone, no one knew what to do with me.”

He waited patiently for her to continue. In his patience, she found strength to continue. “I was supposedly living with my great-aunt at the time. She was elderly and didn’t like me. I don’t blame her—I was a little hooligan, as Mr. Turner said. She didn’t know what to do with me, which is why I was allowed to spend so much time here. During the course of the investigation into my father’s disappearance, she informed the authorities that she could no longer be responsible for me. They were the ones who’d misplaced my father—it was up to them to look after me. They found a distant cousin who agreed to take me in. Unfortunately, my cousin’s husband was rather a perv.” She felt John’s jaw tighten against the top of her head, but to his credit controlled himself and let her finish her story without interruption. “I managed to keep out of his way for a while, but one night he managed to corner me. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand and smashed it over his head. It only served to make him furious. I ended up in hospital.”

John’s arms tightened around her so that she could hardly breathe. He was trembling with suppressed rage. She pulled away far enough to be able to look him in the eyes. “I never meant to tell you that. I’m so sorry. I never meant you to know.”

“Why?” John whispered hoarsely, not trusting his voice any louder. “Why would you not want me to know?”

“Because I never wanted to put that look on your face.” She put her hand on his cheek caressingly.

“What look? The one that says I’m going to hunt down the bastard who hurt you and tear him apart with my bare hands?” he asked, his voice husky with menace.

One corner of Mary’s mouth pulled up into a smile. “No, I quite like that look, to be honest. You can put on your sexy ‘vengeance-is-mine’ face anytime you like.”

John snorted a reluctant laugh. “What, then?”

“You’ve had so much sorrow in your life already. I never meant to make you sad. I’m not sad, not most of the time. It’s all in the past; I’ve done the counselling and the sorting out of feelings and all that. I let it make me a better and stronger person. By the time I was released from hospital, the government had decided to give me a “sorry-we-lost-your-dad-and-sent-you-to-live-with-a-predator” settlement. With money of my own, I was free to be responsible for myself. It all worked out for the best, in the end. There’s no need dredging it all up again, like digging up a corpse. You’ve given me nothing but joy and laughter and excitement since I met you. I don’t want to give you more to grieve about in return.”

John pulled her head down to his shoulder and cradled it in his strong hand. “What’s yours is mine, right? Your grief; your joy; your experiences. What’s mine is yours, whatever there is of me to be had. We share. I love you. All of you. Don’t keep things from me; it’s my right to grieve for what grieves you.”

“Yes, Captain,” she promised, and kissed him thoroughly. 

“It’s my right to kill this creep, also,” John continued when he could breathe again. “We’ll get onto that as soon as this case is wrapped up.”

Mary’s dimples showed as she nodded. “Whatever makes you happy,” she said.


	6. Cat's Out of the Bag

The pounding on the door woke her only three hours after she’d finally fallen asleep. John was up and on his feet immediately, as if the house were on fire. His military training came in handy often, but in the mornings it could be very disconcerting.

“No time to waste! Stop what you’re doing and let’s get to work!” Sherlock’s voice came through the door. Mary considered it a triumph that he had not simply opened the door and walked in.

“What we were doing was sleeping, you git. Go away. We’re up. We’ll be along presently,” John grumbled through the door.

"Sleeping is a dismal waste of time! How can you bear it? I’ve been up all night, accomplishing things!” Sherlock declared, and stomped away.

“Most people have alarm clocks that they can throw across the room when annoyed,” Mary observed. “Too bad our alarm clock is too big for that.”

"Oh, I can throw him across the room,” John grouched, dressing quickly. “One more wakeup call like this, and you just watch me.”

They dressed and hurried down to breakfast. Lestrade was already at the table, calmly having coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon. He was casually ignoring Sherlock, who was pacing the room in an agony of impatience. John sat down without a word and helped himself to a rasher of bacon and a slice of toast, and poured himself some coffee. Mary nibbled at her food wearily and without appetite.

Finally, John spoke up. “Find the cat, did you?” 

Sherlock stilled his restless motion long enough to answer. “Yes, it was in one of the sheds by the barn.”

“You look pleased. Is it a pretty one, then?”

Sherlock was amused. “Oh, very. You’d be surprised.”

“Is there really no tea?” Mary asked despairingly. It just seemed too hard, to have her childhood memories destroyed in one evening and then have no tea for breakfast. Alice rescued her, carrying in the teapot just in the nick of time.

“I hope you all slept well,” she said politely. Sherlock, who had not slept at all and had barely even gone into his room, ignored the question. Mary looked at John, who smiled grimly at her. 

“I slept great, thanks!” Lestrade said cheerfully. “Nothing like fresh country air, is there? I haven’t slept so well in an age.”

“Are you going to the Pond this morning?” Alice asked. “Should I come with you?”

“As you like,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Well, if you don’t need me there, I’d rather not leave Maggy here alone,” she said uncertainly. 

“I’m sure we won’t be needing you, Miss Turner,” Lestrade assured her. “Do what you think best.”

Soon, though not soon enough for Sherlock, they were ready to go. “There’s a footpath through the wood from the back garden to the Pond,” Mary informed him. “It takes longer, but we would avoid the road—and the neighbours.”

“Yes, that’s one of the things I discovered last night,” Sherlock told her. “But I would prefer to follow the path of the victim to the Pond.”

At the McCarthy cottage, they hesitated only a moment, then passed on towards the house next door. The old lady whose name Jimmy McCarthy could not remember sat on her front porch with a cup of tea in hand. She greeted them warmly. Then it was on to William Crowder’s place. Mr. Crowder was in the back yard, working in his garden; yet he instantly noticed them and waved. At the More cottage, young Patience and her sisters were shelling peas on the front doorstep. Their mother was hanging freshly laundered sheets on a line. All of them greeted the strangers curiously.

“Not a soul could pass down this road to the Pond without everyone who lived here knowing about it,” Lestrade remarked. “That’s why it had to be Jimmy who did the old man in. No one else was here.”

“Don’t strain your imagination too much, Lestrade,” Sherlock remarked. They had now reached the police blockade that had been placed across the last stretch of road before it reached the Pond. They walked around it through knee-high grass. It was obvious no one had passed that way in days to contaminate the crime scene; although Sherlock contended that the local police and then Scotland Yard had doubtless already contaminated it enough.

“Look, Sherlock, you were right about the blackmail and the embezzlement. But don’t you see that doesn’t do anything to exonerate Jimmy McCarthy,” Lestrade insisted.

“Of course, it doesn’t. But there are any number of other factors that do!” Sherlock retorted.

“Boys, do I have to separate you two?” John said lightly. 

Boscombe Pond was a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across. Jutting above the wood which lined it on its northern side the red chimneys of the Turner estate could be seen. The footpath from the estate ended on that northern side, where the grassy swath began that surrounded the Pond. The wood continued around the east and southern sides with a narrow belt of sodden, marshy grass about twenty paces across separating the trees from the reeds that marked the edges of the water. The road they were on came upon the Pond from the west and ended in a short turn-around. They left the pavement for the marshy ground. The prints of the last few days were very clear.

“Here’s where McCarthy was standing. He was facing north, as Jimmy said. See, here is where he turned towards Jimmy, then back to the north. And here’s where he fell,” Sherlock mapped out the area with quick gestures.

He hunted around in the surrounding grass. "These are unimportant,” he muttered. “Police officers and emergency workers.” He walked down to the Pond and along the edge a bit. Then he looked up in some amusement. “Lestrade! You went wading? I’d know your footprints anywhere.”

Lestrade sighed. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Sherlock, and I’m not trained in forensics; but I did notice that the wound seemed inconsistent with what a shotgun butt would do. I mucked around in the water with a rake, hoping a more credible murder weapon would turn up. If it becomes an issue, we can dredge the whole Pond.”

“It won’t be necessary. I have the murder weapon in a secure place,” Sherlock said enigmatically. “I found it last night.”

Lestrade shook his head, exasperated. “And you didn’t bother to mention it, of course.”

Sherlock gave an ironic smile. “I did, actually.” He turned abruptly and looked to the north. “So, what was Charles McCarthy looking at to the north? The end of the path from the Turner house. He was waiting to meet someone.” Mary tried to picture old Mr. Turner hobbling down the half-mile long footpath, leaning on his cane. No, it just wasn’t possible, she decided. 

After running up to the footpath, Sherlock bent to the ground, searching carefully. “Whomever McCarthy came here to meet did not stay on the path,” he told his waiting audience. He followed the trail of broken sticks and footprints he had picked up, through the wood to a point south-east of where the victim fell. “Our killer arrived ahead of schedule and hid behind this tree, waiting for McCarthy to keep their appointment. McCarthy obviously expected this person to follow the footpath. When the person he was to meet didn’t appear, he whistled as a signal that he was waiting.”

He continued following the killer’s trail into the grassy sward about the Pond, and back to the footpath. “After the deed was done, haste was more important than stealth. The killer went the straightest way back to the path, close enough for the dying McCarthy to see who it was that had killed him, as well as the murder weapon she was carrying. Jimmy McCarthy must have missed seeing his father’s murderer by mere seconds.”

Mary felt a sense of dread creep over her as she realized where her friend was heading with his deductions. She looked at John and saw that he was watching her with mingled horror at the truth that was being revealed and concern for her reaction to it. She moved closer to him and he clutched her hand in a strong grip.

“Judging by the length of stride and depth of imprints, you are looking for short, slightly built person; someone about Mary’s size, in fact. Could be Maggy—the right height and weight. She could have come from Birmingham with the intention of confronting her future father-in-law herself. What motive, though? And how would she know the area well enough to set up this meeting with a man she’d never met? Also, the killer would have to have been well-known to the victim, familiar enough for him to believe she would recognize his particular whistle,” Sherlock went on, filled with the joy of knowing, and completely unaware of the consternation he was causing. Mary felt a cold wave of shock wash over her. John put a supporting arm around her and held her tightly.

“As to the murder weapon, McCarthy tried to tell us this himself. So last night, I went looking for a cat. A cat that could kill a bull moose, I think you said, Mary.” At last, he actually looked at her and at John and saw her white-faced devastation and his utter dismay. He sobered immediately. “I’m sorry, Mary, that was uncalled for,” he said, truly contrite.

“What the hell are you on about, a cat that can kill a moose!” Lestrade exclaimed. 

“You weren’t with us yesterday, Greg,” John explained quietly. “We walked around the grounds and the girls were discussing their youthful exploits with archery and . . . with catapults.”

Sherlock produced an evidence bag from this coat pocket. It contained a brass hunting catapult. “It was hidden in one of the sheds. The rest of the target equipment was stored in wooden crates in the barn, but this was separated from the rest.”

“Alice,” Mary whispered. “Why? Why would she do that?”

“I believe we should ask her,” Sherlock said. He approached her and John, carefully as if afraid of what reaction he would receive from them. “Mary, I am so sorry. I didn’t think about how this would affect you. I should have done this differently.”

“Yes, you should,” she whispered. “But it’s better to know the truth. It’s all right, Sweetheart, you’re just doing your job.” Dry-eyed and head held high, she smiled grimly at the three men and indicated her readiness to go on.


	7. The End--At Least As Far As Mary Is Concerned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is solved and all loose ends wrapped up--except for one. Who assaulted Mary when she was sixteen? What will John and Sherlock do about it?

While Lestrade and Sherlock took Alice Turner in to the police station, Mary and John stayed behind to try to console the young woman’s father as best they could. They were concerned as to how his emotional state might adversely affect his already fragile physical health. Maggy proved invaluable in this cause, and eventually Mary and John felt comfortable in leaving the two together to await Jimmy’s release from custody. 

They arrived at the station in time to hear Alice give her statement. Alice, concerned for her friends’ happiness, had taken it upon herself to go to Jimmy’s father and try to smooth the way for their engagement. She had found Mr. McCarthy intransigent and verbally abusive. As she pressed her case, he angrily revealed to her the truth about her own father’s criminal activities and the blackmail McCarthy had demanded from him over the past twenty years.

“I told him I would give him any sum of money he demanded to leave Jimmy and Maggy alone,” she explained tearfully. “I arranged to meet him by the Pond that afternoon to give it to him. But I never meant to pay him. I was so angry, thinking about how he made my father suffer all these years. I never wanted him to get one more cent of my father’s money. It was such a simple plan. It would have worked, if Jimmy hadn’t come home unexpectedly. He was meant to be safely in Birmingham.”

She had waited for McCarthy in the wood just as Sherlock had described, but before she could let fly a stone with her catapult, Jimmy appeared on the road beyond. She waited for him to leave, and when she felt he was far enough down the road, she killed her adversary, afraid that if she’d waited longer she would miss the opportunity forever. 

“I never meant to get Jimmy involved,” she sobbed. “I never thought he would hear anything and come back. I was horrified when he was arrested. I didn’t know what to do to fix it.”

She turned her grieving eyes to Mary. “I was so relieved when you e-mailed. I was sure you would help. I thought, even if your friend figured out the truth, you could persuade him not to say anything to the police. He deserved it, Mary! He deserved to die! He was a horrible, cruel old man, and had been all his life.”

Mary sighed. “I know. I know,” she whispered. “I might have thought to do the same. I should hope I would not have let thought grow into deed, but I can’t say for certain. Oh, Alice,” she held her friend in a comforting embrace. “We’ll do all we can to help.”

000

Lestrade drove them to the Gloucester train station late that afternoon. Although he still had reports to file and meetings to attend, the other three had no desire to remain in Herefordshire another moment. John had arranged for a solicitor for Alice and had seen to Mr. Turner’s continued care. Now Lestrade hugged Mary goodbye on the platform. “I’m sorry things turned out as they did. But I’m thankful you thought to e-mail your friend. I appreciate all you did to help.”

Mary smiled sadly. “I thought I was helping Alice,” she replied ruefully. “But helping Jimmy is a good thing, too.” 

Lestrade shook John’s hand and thanked him as well. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you dealing with the press today, mate,” he said gratefully. “You handled them better than I could have done.”

“Handling Sherlock has prepared me for dealing with anyone, I suppose,” John smiled.

Turning to the third member of the party, the D.I. offered a reconciling hand. Sherlock, unusually subdued, accepted the offered hand and shook it with a warmth that Lestrade clearly had not expected.

“I’m grateful, Sherlock,” Lestrade admitted. “I hate to think that I might have been responsible for putting an innocent man in prison. I apologize for doubting you, and I thank you for your good work.”

“No need, Detective Inspector. Just remember not to doubt me in future.”

Mary cleared her throat. “Manners, Sherlock,” she murmured.

Sherlock looked her with a question in his eyes.

“When someone thanks us, we say . . . .” she prompted.

Sherlock sulked a bit. “You’re welcome, Lestrade,” he pronounced. Mary patted his sleeve affectionately.

Once on the train, she collapsed against John in exhaustion, the past two days’ events and the lack of sleep catching up with her. She had felt a bit ashamed of herself as she had stayed in the background most of the day, avoiding the press conference, avoiding speaking to anyone; letting John do all the talking and make all the arrangements. Mary had been strong and self-reliant all her life. It was such a relief to have a sturdy, dependable companion to take care of things at times such as this, to be strong for her. She closed her eyes and relaxed against her husband’s shoulder and drifted off for a bit.

She awoke with a start perhaps an hour later with the sudden shock of a parent who had been distracted for a moment and lost track of her three-year-old. She opened her eyes and saw with relief that Sherlock was sitting in the seat facing them, occupying himself with his phone. She smiled at him.

“You’re being very quiet. Are you all right?”

He looked up her seriously. “You have been very traumatized by the day’s events. I was attempting to be considerate.”

Mary’s dimples deepened. “Thank you, Sweetheart. That was lovely of you.”

“Also, I threatened to toss him from the train if he woke you,” John added wryly.

Sherlock huffed. “Threats weren’t necessary.” He looked at Mary with as much concern as she’d ever seen him convey. “I hurt you today. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t. You found out the truth, and if the truth was hurtful that wasn’t your fault.”

“You might have conveyed it a bit more compassionately,” John remarked wryly.

Mary elbowed him gently. “Leave him alone, Captain. He did good work. He saved an innocent man from being charged with murder, and now Jimmy and Maggy can live happily ever after. And you both did wonderfully well in convincing the authorities to leave out all mention of Mr. Turner’s crimes. I’m glad he’ll not have to suffer further for what happened so long ago.” She reflected silently for a moment on how surreal life could be. “I suppose it seems odd to the general public, that the son of the murder victim is now living with the dying father of the accused murderer. But I’m glad to know that Mr. Turner will be well taken care of until his time comes.”

“And if Alice is convicted, I understand Mr. Turner will make Jimmy his heir. All of Turner’s money and property: McCarthy may get what he wanted after all,” John mused. “Except for the living long enough to enjoy his triumph part.”

“I’ve been doing further research into the embezzlement investigation,” Sherlock told them. “I believe the old man who was convicted of the crime was actually the embezzler. Whether Turner was his partner in crime and turned on him, or whether he gained control of the money during the course of the investigation, I can’t tell. But at least he did not frame an innocent man.”

Mary sighed. “I am glad to know that.”

At that moment, Sherlock’s phone signalled an incoming text. He read through it briefly, then handed it to John. John smiled at his friend grimly and handed the phone back.

“What?” Mary asked.

Sherlock looked at John inquiringly. John hesitated, then nodded.

“We’ve been researching you, too,” Sherlock admitted. “We have found out where your cousin’s husband is now. The one who assaulted you. He’s in prison.”

Mary decided not to be surprised that John had talked to his best friend about the man who had harmed her. Of course he would. He needed a sympathetic ear in which to vent his outrage; and Sherlock was family, and would want the right to be angry, too. She chose to be surprised by his statement, instead. “Still? It’s been twelve years.”

“Again,” John explained. “Apparently he’s made a habit of beating people up. Why didn’t you tell me you had him prosecuted? It would have made it easier to find him.”

Mary looked at him, rather insulted. “Just who do you think you’re dealing with?” she demanded. “Do you really believe I’d just let him get away with it? Of course I pressed charges, and of course he was convicted.”

John smiled admiringly at her. “You always were courageous, weren’t you? I can’t imagine feeling brave enough to take you on.”

“Well, I guess that spoils your vengeance plans, doesn’t it? With him being safe behind bars?” Mary teased.

Sherlock had a mischievous glint in his eye. “It only complicates things. I enjoy a challenge.”

Mary turned to John and saw the twin to Sherlock’s expression. “Now, boys,” she sighed, entering into their little joke. “Please don’t do anything that will land you in the dock. Haven’t I suffered enough, without losing you both to the penal system?” 

John waved penal servitude away with a casual gesture. “Mycroft will get us off,” he assured her. “He’s keen for a bit of revenge as well.” Mary gave him a look of surprise. “What?” he asked. “How do you think we got this information so quickly? You never even told me your cousin’s name. It took pulling a number of strings.”

Sherlock steepled his hands and began to plot. “Mycroft could get us into the prison, and rig the security cameras for us,” he began.

“We could dress as guards,” John suggested. “Incite a riot. In the confusion, we could . . . .”

Mary smiled and leaned back, listening to the amusing, familiar banter. It was good to get back to their version of normal.


	8. John's Point of View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was John thinking as this mystery played out and Mary's past was revealed to him at last? What will he do with what he learns?

The case had turned into an utter fiasco, and John found himself wishing they had never involved themselves with it. Mary had wanted to help her old school friend, Alice Turner—one of the few friends she’d had growing up—and of course, this friend turned out to the be the murderer. What else did we expect? John mused bitterly. 

It had started out to be such a promising trip. During the journey to Ross-on-Wye, Mary had regaled John and Sherlock with stories of the holidays she had spent on Boscombe Pond with the Turners. John had been thrilled. Mary had never before been so forthcoming about her past, and he was revelling in her memories with her. It seemed that the Turners were one of the few bright spots in her past and John had found her pleasant reminiscences intensely pleasurable himself. 

And then it had all turned to nightmares, as Sherlock delved into the case and revealed the Turners to be not all they had portrayed themselves to be. It was gratifying to have absolved an innocent man of murder, but for Mary’s childhood friend to finally confess to the murder instead had been a horrifying ordeal for everyone concerned.

But aside from the catastrophe of the murder case, Boscombe Pond itself had brought back memories that Mary had long been trying to suppress. Her revelations of the night before had left them both raw with emotion at a time when they had needed all their strength to deal with the Turners. In between meetings with attorneys and the press, John walked out into an alleyway to catch his breath and allow himself time to process their conversation of the night before.

000

He had entered the bedroom late that night and saw her standing by the window, looking out into the shadowy wood beyond the Turner’s luxurious house. He joined her there, his arm around her, watching in the dark as Sherlock prowled the grounds for clues in the garden below them. 

Mary mused aloud concerning the revelations of the case, trying to work out how she could have been so wrong about Jack Turner. John only held her more tightly against his side, but wisely said little. In their two years of marriage, he had learned how to discern when she needed him to speak and when she needed him to stay quiet. Whatever Mary needed, John was determined to give her.

"I'm glad I know you, Captain," Mary said softly. "If I'd never met you, I'd be sure there wasn't a soul on earth with an ounce of integrity." John felt the weight of that statement keenly, determined to live up to her faith in him, to be the man she believed him to be. She hid her face in his shoulder, not quite crying, and he stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He was fairly certain that the Turners were not really what was troubling her.

"There's more, isn't there? There's something else bothering you," he dared to murmur gently. "Do you feel like talking about it?"

She was still for a long moment. Then she sighed and lifted her head and looked out the window again. "This is the room I always stayed in when I visited here. The last day of my childhood was spent here. The very moment it ended, I was standing right here. This is the last place, the last time, I felt settled and safe for a long time after. I thought that it would bring back happy memories of those times, being here. But . . . ." she was unable to continue. She hid her face in his neck once more.

"You were here, on that last holiday, when you got the news about your father disappearing," John realized. She nodded.

"It wasn't his disappearance that traumatized me, though. He'd vanished from my life ten years earlier, when he sent me away. It was what came after that was . . . difficult. Because since he was gone, no one knew what to do with me."

He waited patiently for her to continue, barely able to breathe, certain he was at last going to be permitted to share in the tragedy of her assault. "I was supposedly living with my great-aunt at the time. She was elderly and didn't like me and didn't know what to do with me, which is why I was allowed to spend so much time here. During the course of the investigation into my father's disappearance, she informed the authorities that she could no longer be responsible for me. They were the ones who'd misplaced my father—it was up to them to look after me. They found a distant cousin who agreed to take me in. Unfortunately, my cousin's husband was rather a perv." John's jaw tightened against the top of her head, but to his credit he controlled himself and let her finish her story without interruption. "I managed to keep out of his way for a while, but one night he managed to corner me. I grabbed the first thing that came to hand and smashed it over his head. It only served to make him furious. I ended up in hospital."

John's arms tightened around her protectively, hoping she could not tell how his heart was hammering in his chest. He was trembling with suppressed rage. She pulled away far enough to be able to look him in the eyes. "I never meant to tell you that. I'm so sorry. I never meant you to know."

"Why?" John whispered hoarsely, not trusting his voice any louder. "Why would you not want me to know?" This was the very thing he’d longed to learn for over two years: why had she never trusted him with her past?

"Because I never wanted to put that look on your face." She put her hand on his cheek caressingly.

"What look? The one that says I'm going to hunt down the bastard who hurt you and tear him apart with my bare hands?" he asked, his voice husky with menace.

One corner of Mary's mouth pulled up into a smile. "No, I quite like that look, to be honest. You can put on your sexy 'vengeance-is-mine' face anytime you like."

John snorted a reluctant laugh. "What, then?" he murmured, his throat aching with the pain of it.

"You've had so much sorrow in your life already. I never meant to make you sad. I'm not sad, not most of the time. It's all in the past; I've done the counselling and the sorting out of feelings and all that. I let it make me a better and stronger person. By the time I was released from hospital, the government had decided to give me a "sorry-we-lost-your-dad-and-sent-you-to-live-with-a-predator" settlement. With money of my own, I was free to be responsible for myself. It all worked out for the best, in the end. There's no need dredging it all up again, like digging up a corpse. You've given me nothing but joy and laughter and excitement since I met you. I don't want to give you more to grieve about in return."

So she didn’t mistrust him; she was protecting him. John hardly knew what to feel. 

He pulled her head down to his shoulder and cradled it in his strong hand. "What's yours is mine, right? Your grief; your joy; your experiences. What's mine is yours, whatever there is of me to be had. We share. I love you. All of you. Don't keep things from me; it's my right to grieve for what grieves you."

"Yes, Captain," she promised, and kissed him.

"It's my right to kill this creep, also," John continued when he could breathe again. "We'll get onto that as soon as this case is wrapped up." He said this lightly, his concern centred on comforting his wife; but every fibre of his being burned in righteous fury.

“Whatever makes you happy,” Mary said.

000

As John stood in the alleyway, struggling to control his frustrated rage, Sherlock wandered up. “Ah, there you are. Lestrade has been looking for you.”

John sighed. Lestrade was nearly as useless in talking to the press as Sherlock was. The doctor had had his work cut out for him that day, with press conferences and statements to be made and with supervising Sherlock’s official reports to the local police and to Scotland Yard; not to mention finding an attorney for Mary’s friend and settling Mr. Turner’s affairs. “All right, back into the fray,” he groaned. “How I hate all this. Damn it, I just want to take Mary out of this and go home.”

Sherlock gazed at his friend astutely. “She told you last night, didn’t she? She finally talked to you about the assault she suffered at sixteen.”

“Hmm,” John grunted. “I don’t know how you deduced that, Sherlock, but you’re right, she did. Well, she told me a bit. I don’t have the name of the monster who attacked her, but he was her legal guardian at the time so he shouldn’t be hard to find. There should be some record, somewhere.” He bent to scoop up a rock and threw it with all his strength against a skip a few yards away. “Not a stranger. Not a bloody acquaintance. No, it was the bastard who was meant to be protecting her that brutalized her.” His voice rose as he spoke until he was nearly shouting, infuriated.

Sherlock nodded soberly. “I’ll call Mycroft. He’ll find the culprit before the day is out, I’ll warrant. What are you planning to do to him?”

John considered his answer carefully. It’s my right to kill him, he had told Mary. Whatever makes you happy, Mary had said. 

She had meant it as a quip. 

John took it as permission.


	9. Vengeance is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes revenge on the man who brutalized his wife.

He stood at the one-way mirror and gazed on the man who had assaulted his wife. Tall, burly, and coarse-featured, with blunt-fingered hands and cold, bestial eyes, Nat Denton was the most repulsive-looking person he’d ever had to meet. Or perhaps his perceptions were colored by his knowledge. Picturing this monster touching a tiny, sixteen-year-old Mary made his insides roil, and John had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to calm himself.

“A real brute, isn’t he?” Lestrade commented tightly, watching the prisoner seated at the interview table. “Are you certain you don’t want him cuffed?”

John opened his eyes and nodded grimly. “No. I need him to be afraid of me because of who I am, not because he’s restrained and helpless to defend himself.”

“Are you still determined to go in alone?” Sherlock inquired emotionlessly. John looked at his friend and saw what few would discern in the detective—a cold fury behind the mask of indifference. 

“I have to do this myself,” John told him gently. “I’m sorry, I know it’s selfish of me. But I need to be the one to do this.”

“We’ll be right here, keeping an eye on events, mate,” Lestrade told him, his voice full of understanding. “If you need us, just give a signal and we’ll charge right in.” John nodded again. It was good to know that two such good men had his back. It was not that he was afraid of the prisoner. He had fought and defeated many such opponents in his lifetime: bullies who depended upon their size to intimidate, but who were too stupid to know how to use their own advantages. Such men had no idea how to fight someone who refused to be intimidated, and were usually terrified by any opposition. No, John was more concerned with keeping his own impulses under control. He did not want his righteous fury to overcome him and ruin his plan.

He steeled himself, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the interrogation room, aware of the sound of the door closing and locking behind him. He stood a moment just inside, silently staring at the man who had brutalized his Mary.

“You’re not my lawyer. Who the hell are you?” Denton demanded angrily.

John forced his voice to remain quiet and calm. “My name is John Watson. I am formerly a Captain in the RAMC. I am a doctor. I am a consultant to Scotland Yard.” He paused for effect. “Most importantly, I am Mary Morstan’s husband.” He was gratified to see the prisoner blanch at that.

But Denton recovered quickly. “So what?” the prisoner growled obstinately. “You can’t do nothin’ to me. I got rights.” He gestured to the video camera suspended from the ceiling in one corner. “You can’t do nothin’,” he repeated with some satisfaction.

If Denton had shown deep remorse, John might have been tempted to be merciful. If he had indicated any sense of guilt for his crimes, John might have altered his plan. The prisoner had, with his bravado and his smug countenance, sealed his own fate. John smirked and waved a hand at the camera. The blinking red indicator light immediately switched off.

“I can do,” John assured Denton, ice in his voice, “absolutely anything I like.” He approached the table slowly and sat across from the prisoner. “You see, Mary has made a number of important and influential friends. Men in high positions in the government and at Scotland Yard.” He saw Denton’s eyes flicker towards the one-way mirror. “Oh, yes, we’re being watched. By Mary’s friends. If you attack me, they’ll be in here in a flash. At the inquiry, they’ll find we killed you in self-defense.” He smiled his most menacing smile.

All color had now drained from Denton’s face. “What do you want?” he choked.

John leaned forward, his arms folded on the table. “I want to be sure that you understand precisely what it is that you have done,” he explained carefully, speaking softly and taking his time. “Mary was sent to live with you and your wife because she needed a place of refuge. She had just lost her father and she had no other living family. She was a young girl quite alone in the world. She needed help. She needed a home, and all that a home implies—care, belonging, safety. You and your wife agreed to give her those things.” Now John allowed his voice raise a bit, and he stabbed Denton with piercing eyes. “But instead, you offered her a life of constant terror. She lived in fear of being attacked; and then, of course, you attacked her.”

Denton scooted his chair back from the table angrily. “I don’t have to listen to this. Guard! I want to go back now! Guard!”

Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. “There’s just Mary’s friends out there, idiot. Today, you are the one in need of a place of refuge and safety, and it will be refused you, just as you refused Mary. Now, I have thought carefully about what should be done to you,” he continued calmly, sitting back in his chair, crossing his arms and gazing at the man across from him as if he were one of Sherlock’s specimens in a jar. “I thought about bringing Mary’s medical records with me and reading them off to you—eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth being the idea. But I didn’t need to bring it with me, did I? Because the contents of it are burned into my brain. Everything you did to her is in here.” John pointed to his temple, never taking his eyes off his prey. His voice was low and mesmerizing. “Every broken bone. Every ruptured organ. Every bruise and laceration. I could easily replicate her injuries. I’m a doctor. I know how to break people.”

Denton was now breathing hard, his eyes wide with panic. “Hey, I didn’t go to hurt the girl!” he protested. “She broke a bloody bottle over my head! I hadn’t planned to hurt her, but she . . . she. . .”

The table overturned in one, quick motion of John’s hand, and there was no longer any barrier between them. The outraged soldier stood and grasped the prisoner’s shirt in his hands and jerked him from his seat, then kicked the chair aside. “Do you really want to tell me,” he grated out between clenched teeth, “that she ought to have just submitted to rape without fighting back and she would have been okay? Is that really,” he shook Denton hard, raising his voice, “is that really something you want to say to me?” He threw the man to the floor, chest heaving with rage.

Denton scrambled backwards until the wall frustrated his escape. “No, no, I didn’t mean that. Really, I didn’t,” he cried.

“I should hope not,” John straightened to his full height and squared his shoulders formidably. 

“I done my time!” Denton continued desperately. “I paid my dues! You can’t do nothin’ to me.”

“According to the laws of England, that’s true. You’ve paid for your crimes against my wife to the satisfaction of the crown,” John conceded in a harsh tone. “Not, however, to MY satisfaction.” He approached the cowering Denton menacingly. “And there’s also the matter of the crimes committed against our child,” he added, stopping his advance with the tips of his shoes touching the prisoner’s feet. “The injuries you inflicted on Mary were directly responsible for the death of our baby.” Now John crouched down to eye-level with Denton. “You murdered my only child,” he ground out grimly in a voice like flint. “How do you pay for that? How do you make that right?”

Abruptly, John stood and turned his back on Denton, pacing the length of the room, his eyes on the one-way mirror where he knew his friends were riveted to his every action. “A life for a life,” he said sternly.

“You can’t pin that on me,” Denton whined. “I didn’t touch your baby.”

“A life for a life,” John repeated mercilessly, turning to face his prey once more. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Denton. You’re going to live out your sentence here, for the satisfaction of the victims of the crime you committed that put you here. That has nothing to do with Mary, and I have no right to interfere with their acquisition of justice. But eventually, you will be released. And then, Denton,” John smiled threateningly, “you’re all mine.” 

Denton slid up the wall to his feet. “You can’t touch me! Once I’m out of here, I’ll . . . .”

“Shut up!” the doctor ordered sharply. “And sit down.” Denton obeyed immediately, picking up his overturned chair and sitting down on it hard.

“I can do whatever the hell bloody-well please,” John continued, his voice steely and his face hard. “I’ve told you Mary has friends in Scotland Yard and in the government. We have ways of keeping track of you, and believe me, we will. There’s nowhere you can go to elude us. There’s no place you can hide. And one day, when you least expect it, death will come to you, Denton.” 

John paced back across the room to stand within a foot of Denton. Looking down on the prisoner, he rasped out harshly, “I’m a patient man. I can bide my time. The perfect opportunity will show itself eventually. It could be months. It could be years. But never forget, Denton, that death is coming for you. It may look like an accident. It may look like natural causes. It may even look like some unexpected illness. But you will die one day, Denton, and in such a way that I will never be implicated. I promise you that. You will die, and I,” John added with a chilling grin, “will smile.”

With that, John turned smartly on his heel and went to the door. His friends were watching; he did not even need to raise his hand before the door swung open. He closed it behind him and leaned back against it, pulling in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Every fiber of his being was trembling with emotion.

“That was brilliant, John,” Sherlock commended him. “Well done.”

John grimaced and gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before pushing off the door and heading on through the maze of corridors to the exit. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade and Sherlock conversing.

“So after Denton gets out, what do we do?” Lestrade was asking.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. “Denton’s own mind does our work for us after this. Unless something dreadfully unfortunate happens, we should never have to deal with the bastard again.”

Lestrade snorted with laughter. “That IS brilliant! He spends the rest of his days waiting for the other shoe to drop!”

“Everyone dies eventually,” Sherlock went on to explain. “People are able to ignore that fact for the most part; Denton will be exquisitely aware of his coming demise every moment of every day. When Mary lived under his roof, she was constantly waiting for the attack she knew was to come. Now her attacker will learn exactly what that was like.”

They left the building and headed through the parking lot, John still in the lead, still needing his space.

“Does Mary know about this scheme of yours?” Lestrade inquired.

“No. I doubt she would approve. She is a much kinder person than John is,” Sherlock replied. “I imagine she would find the constant terror of the man over a period of perhaps thirty or forty years to be . . . excessive.”

Lestrade grunted. “I can see that point of view.”

“However, if she does find out about our plan and objects to it, John can simply remind her that she did, at one time, tell him to do ‘whatever makes him happy,’” Sherlock concluded.

“Did it, I wonder? Make him happy?” Lestrade mused.

John could feel the detective’s eyes boring into the back of his head in scrutiny. “I don’t know,” his friend conceded. “Time will tell.”

They had now reached the car, and John turned to look at his friends just in time to see Sherlock give a broad and sociopathic grin. 

“For myself,” said Sherlock, “I am quite happy with the results of our revenge.”

“Sadistic though it may be, I have to say, I am, too,” Lestrade agreed cheerfully.

“I’ll be happy when I get home to Mary,” John said grimly, and slid into the car.


	10. And Now It's Really Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the lovely and long-suffering mrspencil; she’ll know why. . . .

He turned up at the clinic with a bouquet of roses and a request that she accompany him for dinner. Mary, glowing with delight at the surprise, put the flowers in a vase on her desk and explained to the receptionist that she was leaving a bit early. 

Angelo met them at the door. “Your table is ready, Dr Watson!” he exclaimed. “For you and your beautiful wife! You are ravishing, my dear, ravishing!” He kissed Mary on both cheeks, to her great amusement, and gestured them onward. “My best table, at the front window. Two candles for my favourite couple! Always a pleasure to serve old friends!” He produced two menus and disappeared.

Mary sat down, giggling. “I’m so glad he’s forgiven me for not being Sherlock.” John sniggered, revelling in the success of his surprise.

John didn’t need to look at the menu—he always ordered the same thing. Instead, he gazed at his ravishing bride with pleasure. That she had agreed to spend her life with him remained a constant source of astonishment. 

“So what’s the occasion, Captain?” she asked cheerfully after they had placed their order. 

“I’m amazed you don’t remember,” he teased, grinning. “It’s the third anniversary of our first date.”

Mary’s eyes lit up with joy. “Oh! So it is! Fancy you remembering the exact date. What a hopeless romantic you are!”

John affected a smug look. “Is a man likely to forget the date of one of the most important days of his life?”

“Certainly, most men do!” Mary laughed.

“Well, I am not most men, am I? Besides, I knew our first date was the day after I wrote up your case, so I just had to look up the date on my blog.”

“Romantic, and clever as well,” Mary praised him, warming his heart. “What a wonderful idea this was.”

“Just because you’re an old, married woman doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be romanced,” John smiled. She smacked his arm and beamed at him.

“And we sat at this very table, didn’t we?” she marvelled. “Angelo wasn’t as lovely, though. He hated me then. And I was so terrified!”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Terrified? Of Angelo? Or of me?”

“Of me! Well, I was already completely mad for you, you see. I wanted so much to make a good impression. I was afraid I’d frighten you off,” Mary confessed.

John was filled with a sense of wonder. “Really? You were in love with me that early on? I wish I’d known it at the time. I was fairly terrified, myself.”

“Oh, I fell for you during the case,” Mary assured him. “I’d never met anyone so singularly exciting. But when did you fall in love me?” she demanded.

John looked thoughtful. “I’m not really sure, to be honest. It just sort of came over me gradually.”

Mary chortled, “Like a disease?”

John considered this seriously. “Hmm. I suppose it was very like it. Heart palpitations, racing pulse, elevated temperature, inability to concentrate . . . . I’m surprised I wasn’t hospitalized, now that I think about it.” Mary snorted with laughter. He continued, “I do know when I became aware I was in love with you, though. Remember that night we went to the cinema and then walked on Westminster Bridge?”

Mary smiled dreamily. “Our first kiss. No, of course I don’t remember, Captain. Not at all.”

Chuckling, John went on. “Before I left the flat that evening, Sherlock said, ‘This one could break your heart, couldn’t she?’ And I realized, he was right.” They smiled at each other affectionately. Two and half years of marriage, and he still felt grateful that she loved him. In return, he adored her completely and with ferocity.

Angelo brought their dinner, and they ate for a moment in companionable silence. Finally, Mary asked casually, “So, Captain, are you ever going to tell me about your visit with Nat Denton last week?”

John’s insides jumped with momentary shock, but then a sheepish grin spread across his face. “I don’t know why I ever even try to keep anything from you.”

“I don’t know why, either,” Mary informed him smartly. “So, must I expect a visit from the police with a warrant for your arrest?”

John tried to look as innocent as possible. “I promise you, we did nothing illegal. Or immoral. I just . . . explained a few things, that’s all.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “By ‘we’, I assume you mean Sherlock was there as well?”

“Yes. So was Greg. And Mycroft made the arrangements with the prison. It’s all above board,” John assured her.

“And by ‘explain’, I hope you mean you used words,” Mary continued. “Just words.”

“I didn’t hurt him, Mary. I just talked to him,” he said earnestly, but considered a moment, then added, “The furniture might have been abused a bit.”

She snorted with a short laugh. “I can imagine. Do you really understand how utterly terrifying you are when you’re angry?”

“I can make it work for me,” John shrugged modestly.

“But you didn’t punch him?” she asked incredulously.

“Not at all,” he replied airily. After a short silence, he amended, “I might have dropped him, once, though.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she frowned. “Well, I suppose you could have done worse. I can’t say I approve, not for my sake. But for the baby. . . .”

John felt a stirring of conscience. Perhaps he’d terrorized Denton a bit more excessively than necessary. He’d have to think about amending his threats a bit. In a few years.

They had finished eating as they talked. “What shall we do now? Walk in the park?” he asked.

Mary smiled. “Let’s walk across Westminster Bridge and snog,” she suggested coyly.

John considered this soberly. “I don’t know. That anniversary isn’t for three weeks yet. We don’t want to go rushing things.”

The corners of her mouth pulled up into a wicked grin. “Let’s live dangerously,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.


End file.
